Come the Dawn
by Renee17
Summary: The chandelier has fallen, the opera house has burned, the past lies in ruins. Choices have been made, yet for those left behind, there is no choice, but to go on... EM pairing, work in progress, not yet complete.
1. Chapter One

**Come the Dawn, Chapter One**

_**Requiem et Resurrectio**_

_In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on._

_Robert Frost_

He stepped out of the darkness, pushing aside the thick drapery that had obscured the passageway. It had been at least a full day since he'd heard any sound emanate from the cavern beyond. Before that, the underground grotto had echoed with the combined voices of the mob—shouts, jeers, mocking laughter, gasps of surprise as they discovered and plundered yet another of his carefully guarded treasures. He'd listened impassively as the mob had spent its fevered rage and bloodlust on the outward trappings of his life. Gradually, the shouts had died off, the voices had faded, and the sounds of destruction had dwindled into a hushed emptiness.

It was over.

He himself had escaped their wrath, stealing away mere seconds before they had burst into his home. He had no real worry that they'd find the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels, grottos and caverns beyond the underground lake—mobs were not subtle in their methods. And he was proven right; his hiding place in the subterranean depths had remained undiscovered. There, he had waited—cold, hungry, blinded by the darkness, but protected from it all by a shroud of merciful numbness. Rage, anger, betrayal—they were meaningless, abstract concepts. He felt nothing. He distantly remembered the feel of emotion, of passion, but they were ethereal notions, better abandoned to the past, where they belonged. Whatever feelings he'd once claimed had been hacked from his soul and left to die in the darkness, along with his life's work.

It was dark; he felt his way over to where his desk had once stood, tripping only once over some unknown, broken artifact. The desk was where he expected—apparently the horde had been too weak or too lazy to bother moving the colossal piece of mahogany. In one of its drawers he found candles and matches, providing a feeble light with which to view the destruction.

It was bad. They'd sacked the place—much was missing, more was destroyed. What they hadn't carried off, they'd burned, or smashed, or thrown in the shallow lake. For a moment, a tiny plume of rage curled inside him, but he snuffed it out mercilessly. There was no room for anger, or hatred, or regret inside the shell of ice that had formed around his carcass. Likewise, there was no space for outrage, no fertile soil in which the pain of betrayal could take root. His soul was barren, lifeless, and he embraced the emptiness. He _would not_ allow himself to feel.

There was nothing for him here, anyway. It would take but a moment for him to gather the few things he needed—clothing, provided some remained, a carefully hidden cache of currency, and a few possessions too precious to leave behind.

He picked his way through the debris, refusing to wince at the sight of the organ, damaged beyond restoration. The stage sets, the small miniatures of the cast—all gone, all destroyed.

He reached the smaller chamber that served as a bedroom—here, the damage was less, as though the mob had focused its attention elsewhere. Still, there was some disarray—drawers had been emptied out onto the floor, clothing had spilled from the wardrobe, but on the whole, this area had been spared the wanton destruction that marked the outer room.

The music box caught his eye. _They had left it?_ Then again, who would place any value on such a thing? He walked over to the table and ran a finger over the miniature monkey, clad in its rich Persian robes, holding its tiny cymbals in eternal readiness. A stab of pain lanced his chest as he recalled crafting the little piece; with a sigh, he touched its mechanism and listened as the chiming melody began. _Masquerade_…

A muffled noise from behind him jolted his attention away from the music box. _Had one of the plundering vultures remained behind?_ He spun about, glancing around the chamber, searching the shadowy corners of the room for a hidden assailant.

"Who's there?" he growled, brandishing the candle above his head and glowering into the dimness. He took a step or two further into the room, careful to keep his back to the nearest wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he searched for something that could be used as a weapon.

The noise came again, this time a faint rustling from the direction of the bed. He bent, picked up a discarded brass candlestick and walked a step or two closer.

"Show yourself," he demanded, scowling into the gossamer-shrouded darkness.

There was a sigh, and an abrupt blur of movement. After a moment, more rustling ensued and, with a whisper of silk, the curtains shrouding the bed lifted, and a soft soprano voice spoke from its depths.

"Mother said you'd return."


	2. Chapter Two

**Come the Dawn, Chapter Two**

**_Intermezzo pour deux_**

He gaped at her, stunned out of his insensate indifference by the sheer lunacy of the sight in front of him. There, sitting cross-legged on the bed, clutching a white porcelain mask in her hands, sat Meg Giry.

He scowled at her, shocked to his core that Madame Giry's daughter had found her way down here, shocked even more that her mother had allowed it. Or perhaps Madame Giry was unaware her daughter's curiosity. And perhaps Mademoiselle Giry herself was unaware of the proverbs regarding curiosity's consequences. _Something about cats_…

As he contemplated all his reasons for ridding himself—by any means necessary—of the aggravation of her presence, balanced against his loyalty towards her mother, she unfolded her legs and moved to the side of the bed, finally standing up. Her eyes dropped to the mask in her hands before she lifted them to meet his, dark blue meeting stormy gray. Belatedly, he realized that nothing covered his face; his deformity was in plain sight, bare to her intrusive gaze. Unconsciously, he shifted his weight, turning his head slightly away.

"What do you want, Mademoiselle Giry?" he asked, refusing to look at her. "Have you come to gawk at the monstrosity? To pay your respects to the Devil's Child? Or have you simply come to select a souvenir from the lair of the Opera Ghost?" He set the flung his arms wide, tossing the candlestick onto the floor and turning in a circle to encompass the whole of the chamber in his gesture. "If so, you've arrived a bit too late. All the choice pieces have already been spoken for."

She remained expressionless, watching him with no pity, no curiosity, no fear. Eventually, she spoke. "I came to make sure you were unharmed. To see—if you were injured—if you needed help."

He blinked at the complete unexpectedness of her words.

"You…came… to help? _Me_?" He shook his head, unable to grasp the concept. Finally, he gave up. It was, simply put, incomprehensible. "_Why_?"

She shrugged and finally glanced away. "Because it was wrong, what they did." She moved toward him, stopping several feet away and extending her arm. He stared dumbly at the cold, colorless fragment of porcelain before setting aside the candle he still held and taking the mask from her. "To come here, to steal, to destroy…

She turned her back, allowing him the opportunity to settle his disguise back in place. It was uncomfortable—his face was grimy with dirt and sweat, and the tight-fitting porcelain ground the debris painfully against his skin. It was also questionable as to the effectiveness of the façade—the partial wig that covered the hairless portion of his scalp was gone—lost somewhere in the chaos outside, and in any event, young Meg had already seen what lay beneath. Still, he felt less naked, less exposed—less vulnerable—with the mask back in place.

"They said they were coming to get Christine. To save her…" Her voice trailed off, and he watched her as she stood there, still turned away from him. She held her back straight, her head up, the classic grace of a dancer evident in her posture. Her voice, though, was devoid of any grace, or of any emotion at all. It was as flat and colorless as the midwinter sky.

"They came down here, realized she wasn't here—_no one_ was—but they didn't just leave. I asked them to, of course. I _begged_ them to leave here and help me find Christine…" For a moment, bitterness seeped into her voice, before she squelched it and continued the bland narration. "They ignored me. They were too occupied, by then, with their looting and vandalism. They had lost interest in searching for the missing opera singer. Greed was more important to them. Greed, and perhaps vengeance."

She turned around, glancing over his form. "You seem to have escaped unharmed. My mother said you would have." Her gaze settled on his, and he was struck by the unblinking calm of her expression. "I didn't believe her. I saw what they were capable of. I wanted to see for myself."

He shook his head in bewildered disbelief. "I am…intact."

She nodded. "I see that. Mother will be pleased."

"Your mother…she _allowed_ you to come down here?" For all the years he had known the indomitable Madame Giry, the one thing that had stood out above all else had been the strength of her protectiveness towards those she considered her own. She _would not_ have allowed her daughter to come down here—not alone, not without protection against the traps and snares that the good woman well knew were scattered throughout his underground domain.

Meg shrugged. "I did not tell her."

Well, _that_ question was answered. He almost smiled, before realizing he had nothing to smile _about_. And now to get rid of her. "Mademoiselle, you must leave. Now. Your mother will be beside herself with worry…"

"No," she interrupted calmly, "she won't be. Mother is quite busy organizing other accommodations for the girls in the ballet corps. They are, unfortunately, rather…displaced at the moment."

Displaced. A euphemistic term for the blazing inferno that had consumed not only the ballet corps' careers, but also their lodging. Madame Giry must, indeed, have her hands full. He felt a momentary twinge of something akin to remorse, before he recalled that he too was…_displaced_. A euphemism, indeed.

"Even more reason to return swiftly then, mademoiselle. I trust, since you managed to arrive here without incident, you can depart safely as well. Use the same path—whatever it was—that you took to come here—do _not_ take another. Go."

Meg gave him a long look, then nodded and turned away. She reached the door to the chamber, then paused, turning towards him once more. "Monsieur, you have not asked, but…Christine is safely aboveground once more. She appeared soon after the mob dispersed. She…and the Vicomte."

He swallowed hard. _Good_. They had gotten away before the ravaging madness of the horde had reached his underground sanctuary. It was, after all, what he had demanded. Christine had gone back into the light, and would be safe—secure, cherished and protected. The boy would see to her well-being. He had the means, and the name, to do so.

"Thank you for telling me, mademoiselle. I am glad they escaped the destruction unscathed." He walked over to the small table and picked up a small framed drawing. A woman's likeness stared back at him, lips curved into an innocent smile, warm brown eyes shining with light and goodness. _Oh, Christine_…

"The Vicomte took Christine with him, to his family's home. She said they planned to marry quietly, quickly…"

He made a non-committal noise, wanting nothing more than for her to just shut up and leave him to his misery. He couldn't bring himself to show her any violence—he owed her mother that much—but her sudden urge to babble on about Christine's—and the boy's—future plans for wedded bliss only served as a grim reminder of all that he had lost. Not that he'd ever really possessed it to begin with.

She drew another breath, and he braced himself for whatever further revelations she felt necessary. "Monsieur? Erik? That is your name, is it not? It is what my mother called you when she assured me of your…resilience. When she told me that she was sure you would have escaped somehow—through the tunnels, out to safety…"

He sighed and lay the drawing face down upon the table. Another relic of the past. "Yes, mademoiselle," he said, turning to face her. "I am Erik. But it is a name you would do well to forget."

"A difficult request, monsieur. You have made a most…memorable impression over the course of my life here." He could have sworn she almost smiled, but the expression was lost in the shadows that obscured her face and clouded her eyes.

He didn't reply. The smile—if it had been that—faded away, and she nodded again. "Very well then. I will leave you to your…" She looked around the room, obviously at a loss as to what, exactly, she was leaving him to. There was not much left to be leaving. Finally, she gave him a dismayed frown. "Monsieur, whatever will you do?"

"Do?" A good question, he supposed. He hadn't the damnedest idea. This place, and the opera house above it, had been his home, his life. He shook his head. "I really don't know."

She took a step towards him, and he saw a speck of sympathy in her eyes. It shot straight to his heart and turned it to ice. Time to cure her of _that_ misconception. "I assure you, mademoiselle, I will be fine. Your mother is absolutely correct. I am resilient. I have survived worse—_much_ worse—than this." He glared at her. "Save your concern for the poor fools above—those who have lost everything. It is they who deserve your pity. Not me."

"So they tell me," she replied, with a lift of her chin. She approached no further, and Erik noted with satisfaction that the glint of pity he'd seen had winked out of existence. "Still," she continued, "I cannot help but wonder…"

"Curiosity has proven lethal to others, my dear," he stated ominously, straightening to his full height and sneering down at her. "You would do well to heed the well-intentioned advice you have received."

She narrowed her eyes at his threatening demeanor. For a moment, he was reminded of a cat—cornered in a dark alley, faced with a much larger predator, but still with its pride unbroken and its back up, hissing and spitting defiantly. He had to concede that the girl was no coward.

"I bid you farewell then, monsieur…Erik," she amended, tilting her chin up stubbornly, as though daring him to correct her. "Godspeed to you, down whatever path you choose." And, in a flash of color and a rustle of fabric, she was gone.

Erik looked around his now-empty bedchamber. The silence descended again, loud and remorseless. There really wasn't much left to sort through. The past was dead; it needed burying.

He pulled together the items he required and slipped away through another passageway, leaving all else to whatever specters remained.


	3. Chapter Three

**Come the Dawn, Chapter Three**

_**Deux Interludes**_

_**Spring 1871**_

**_Interlude Primo_**

Shifting patches of darkness and light drew shadow-pictures across the façade of the State Opera House in Vienna, creating an impression of angels and demons dancing in the moonlight. It was a fanciful thought, but the architectural style favored by von Sicardsburg and van der Nüll was fanciful by its very nature—they'd put together a seemingly hodgepodge conglomeration of various architectural styles marked by pinnacles, colonnades and neo-classical statuary, which Erik admired, in theory, for its sheer bravado. But the resulting structure could have been a disaster. Instead, though, the various overlapping styles, instead of creating discordance, had somehow managed to blend together into a harmonious whole that was both serene and noble. It was a beautiful building.

In all honesty, Erik thought Garnier's Paris Opera House the lovelier of the two; but then again, at least this one was still standing. And in Vienna, he wasn't a fugitive. Yet, anyway. Given some time, he'd probably manage to achieve notoriety here, too. Infamy was a doggedly persistent companion.

Erik sighed. He was so tired of it all. Tired of running, tired of hiding, sick to death of hiding in the shadows, standing apart from the world, scorning its superficiality, yet craving its acceptance. After that last, fiery disaster in Paris, he'd sworn to himself to leave it all, to go as far away as his small hoard of currency would take him, to live out the remainder of his life in the quiet solitude of some remote location, somewhere far away from the need for stealth and secrecy, somewhere far away from the temptation and disappointment of civilized society.

But the music drew him back. On his journey out of France, he'd heard talk of the upstart conductor who ruled the Vienna Philharmonic—and thus the Vienna Opera—and he'd wondered…

Hans Richter had been a protégé of the legendary Richard Wagner, and yet Richter also found the complex and challenging work of Johannes Brahms worthy of admiration—and of performance. The man seemed to simply appreciate music in all its forms and manifestations, and was able to see beauty in very disparate offerings, even at a time when Wagner and Brahms represented polar opposites in music. Could a conductor who had the audacity—and the vision—to thumb his nose at what was expected by his peers somehow also manage to see worth in the work of a complete unknown? It was temptation itself. And though temptation had burned him painfully in the past, Erik found himself once again held in thrall by its seduction.

A flash of darker blackness against the gloom of the paved street caught Erik's eye and he glanced downward. Two yellow-green lanterns stared back at him. Erik smiled. The cat stretched indolently—a sinuous ripple that traveled from the tip of its coal-black paws to its midnight-hued tail—then walked straight up to Erik, sat down and tipped its chin upwards in an expression of regal feline disdain. Charmed, despite himself, by the small creature's boldness, Erik crouched down and held out a hand to the cat, his woolen cape billowing about him in the darkness like the wings of a great bat. The cat hissed and swatted at the swirl of wool, catching Erik's gloved hand with its claw instead. Erik chuckled softly and drew back his hand.

"So it's to be like that, is it, Mademoiselle Le Chat?" Erik made no further move to reach out to the feline. The cat backed up a step or two and then sat down again, watching Erik with those striking, luminous eyes. Finally, after a moment or two, the arrogant creature lifted up a front paw and gave it a dainty lick. Erik smiled again.

"I take it this is your domain, then?" he asked the cat, gesturing beyond the alleyway in which they stood to encompass the whole of the area near the Opera. The cat paused in its grooming and stared calmly at Erik, as if to question why he should even doubt the fact. "Well then, Mademoiselle, I must give you fair warning—I intend to stay here, as well." He hadn't realized that he'd made the decision until just now, but surprisingly, it felt right. He spoke to the cat again. "We shall have to establish a truce, you and I, if we intend to rule the same kingdom." The cat said nothing for a moment, then hissed at him with a contemptuous finality, turned and stalked off into the darkness.

Erik smiled again. The expression felt odd, unfamiliar, brought on by talking to a _cat_, of all things. But in a small, secret part of his heart, Erik acknowledged a strange feeling of peace and, to his chagrin, despite his best efforts at self-preservation, he felt a damnable kernel of hope take root and germinate. Tonight, under cover of darkness, he'd find a place in which to live. Tomorrow, he'd devise his plan.

From somewhere within the gloom of the alley, he heard a soft clatter and the high-pitched squeak of a dying rodent. The cat had apparently just obtained its dinner.

Inexplicably, the cat's prickly self-reliance made Erik think for a moment of Meg, and how she'd looked when he last saw her, standing amidst the ruins of his old life, her life in chaos as well, stubbornly worrying over _his_ future. The thought crossed his mind that he hoped she and her mother had found safety somewhere away from the smoking pile of rubble that he'd made of their lives, and their home.

**_Interlude Secundus_**

Paris burned. Meg stared at the devastation that the city of her youth had become and wondered what sort of madness it was that spurred men, with their machines and their machinations, to destroy such beauty. What the German army hadn't destroyed during its siege of the city, the clash between the French government and the Paris Commune had. Paris had turned on itself; the city that Meg so loved bore its wounds and scars with a quiet dignity, but it would never be the same.

Nor would she.

Tonight was the last night she'd spend in France. Tomorrow, before dawn brightened the horizon, she and her mother would leave Paris, heading east across the mountains, bound for the relative peace of Austria. Thanks to her mother's stubborn tenacity, the somewhat grudging financial assistance of Msrs. Andre and Firmin, and probably thanks most of all to Msr. Reyer's connections in the world of music, her mother had obtained a position as ballet mistress with the State Opera in Vienna.

Reyer himself was bound for England, and although he had been known among the Paris Opera _corps de ballet_ as a slave driver and a perfectionist, Meg had always considered those who thought him so to be lazy and somewhat useless themselves. She had considered him talented and dedicated to his work. And if she were being completely honest with herself, she'd considered him as somewhat a father figure, as well. She would miss him.

But Msr. Reyer wasn't the only fixture of the Paris Opera that Meg would miss. Truth be told, the only reason she'd snuck out of the hostel in which she and her mother were staying was because she'd felt compelled to see the Opera House one more time. For one more moment on her last night in France, Meg wanted—no, needed—to see the shell of the building that had once been the very center of her life.

She stood in the dark, shrouded by her mother's dark cloak, looking out over the crumbled ruin. It glowed a pearlescent ivory in the moonlight, the night casting its magic over the devastation and making it look less like the heap of slag that it was and more like an enchanted kingdom, sleeping in the moonlight, waiting to be awakened.

But there was no one to awaken it. Andre and Firmin—pragmatic businessmen that they were—had cut their losses, sold the property, and gone back into the junk business. God knows, there was enough junk to be had in Paris these days. Reyer was gone; La Carlotta had returned to Spain. The other singers, musicians, dancers and stagehands had dispersed as well. And the only other fixture of the place had been Erik…

_Erik_. Not for the first time, Meg thought of Erik, and wondered what had become of him since that last time she'd seen him, talked to him. Had he found a place for himself somewhere? A place to hide, a place to lick the wounds that life—and Christine, Meg thought, somewhat uncharitably—had inflicted on him? Had he found any sort of peace?

Christine, of course, was with Raoul; they'd left the country months ago. The last Meg had heard, they were in England. She assumed Christine had found happiness with the Vicomte. She'd certainly paid a high enough price for that happiness—they had _all_ paid, in blood, for Christine's new life as the Countess de Chagny…

Annoyed with herself for wallowing in the past, Meg shook herself out of the pointless rumination and quieted the clamoring voices in her head. After all, the past was the past; nothing about it could be changed, there was nothing to do but go forward. No good ever came from looking backward. Christine had moved on, the others had moved on, Meg herself was going forward into a whole new life tomorrow. And Erik…

Meg cast one last lingering look over the haunted pile of moonlit rubble. Plenty of ghosts here; just not the one she most wanted to find. _Erik_… _Oh, Erik... Where are you? What has become of you?_

Meg bit her lip, ignoring the stab of pain she felt when she turned her back on the Opera for the last time. Just like the past, there was nothing she could do about Erik, either, except hope that he'd someday find what he needed. It was just that she'd once secretly, foolishly, futilely wished…

_No_. She forced the thought back into the dark corner of her mind from where it had sprung. She was done with the past. It was over. Done. Pointless. No more. From now on, she'd dwell in the present, and look to the future. And Erik? Well, all the wishes in the world wouldn't help him if he chose not to help himself. She'd just have to hope that Erik had discovered that for himself, somehow.

**_Author's Note_**: _I have taken the liberty of using some creative license with regard to timelines, and thus have played quite fast and loose with the actual years during which Hans Richter served as conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic. In actuality, he began his term there in 1875, while Otto Dessoff held the position prior to that. Dessoff was admirable as well, helping to enlarge the repertoire and establish important organizational principles for the orchestra, but the particular characteristics of Richter—the vision, principle, determination, and quite possibly the arrogance to create his own rules—were what I needed in a conductor for the purposes of this story. Given that, I simply changed his dates of tenure a bit. Other historical details should be correct; if they are not, I offer my apologies._

_One interesting fact about the history of the State Opera House in Vienna: The first performance held there was on May 25, 1869—Mozart's opera, _Don Giovanni 


	4. Chapter Four

**Come the Dawn, Chapter Four**

_**Overture**_

The wonder of the music wrapped around him, and Erik leaned back, closing his eyes to the gilded distraction of the opera house interior and simply letting the music wash over him, through him, touching all the dark corners of his soul.

The tempo was a bit faster than he'd imagined, the strings a bit more pronounced, the brass slightly more muted. But Erik, for once, let the critical thoughts register without dwelling on them, lost in the sheer delight of hearing his music performed by a world-renowned orchestra, with the full approval—indeed, the enthusiastic support—of the conductor.

There had been no coercion, no threats; none were necessary. Richter had simply studied the music, quietly poring over the black-and-white pattern of notes on the velum sheets, saying nothing at all until Erik thought he would go mad. Finally, the conductor had begun humming softly, holding the music in his left hand while his right hand traced patterns in the air, moving with a flowing rhythm that mimicked the ebb and flow of the music itself. At last, reaching the end of the piece, Richter had looked up and met Erik's tense expression with a small smile. His quiet assessment, "This is quite…remarkable," was one of the least expected but most stunningly wonderful moments in Erik's life. As was the fact that Richter had decided, on the spot, to add the work to the opera's upcoming season.

Of the mask obscuring half of his newly-discovered composer's features, he'd said nothing. Not a twitch, not a twinge of facial expression had betrayed any shock—or even any interest—in anything but the music Erik had brought him.

That, more than anything, had stunned Erik into bemused silence while Richter studied the score. Never, in all his life, had his face been so completely…irrelevant. His face was _always_ relevant, always a burden, always the damned albatross hanging about his neck. Never, in all his days, had Erik's physical appearance been so thoroughly dismissed. Richter had eyes only for the music. Any and all else barely registered.

Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Erik to realize that the music had stopped. Opening his eyes, he glanced down from the hidden recesses of the theater box he was ensconced in—if Richter thought it odd, or had indeed even noticed, that the composer whose work various orchestra members had called "riveting," "breathtaking" and, in at least one instance, "damned disturbing," hid himself in an unoccupied box to watch each and every rehearsal of his work, he said nothing.

At first glance, Erik noticed nothing that would have caused the disturbance. There was naught to be seen but the barely controlled chaos of an opera company in pre-production. Then he noticed the small group of individuals standing far off to stage right. The manager, a man named Goss, he recognized. The dainty, gray-haired sprite of a woman, who was gesturing animatedly towards the half-finished backdrop, he knew to be Teodora Daskalova, the head seamstress and costume designer.

_But the other two individuals…_

Erik registered a brief impression of a tall, veiled figure draped in black from head to toe, before his gaze was drawn to the shorter, younger woman standing next to her. Honey-colored hair, drawn back from a pale, heart-shaped face, large blue eyes, the poised stance of a dancer that managed to convey both grace and strength…

Erik felt his heart skip a beat as he recognized both the mother and the daughter, even as hideously out of context as they were here, in his new sanctuary.

_New life be damned_. His old life had managed to follow him all the way across the Alps, haunting him as surely and as mercilessly as the Opera Ghost had haunted the Opera Populaire.

The manager clapped his hands and spoke to the assembled company.

"Passen Sie gut auf!" He clapped again. "I am pleased to announce the arrival of our new ballet mistress. The unfortunate…circumstances...at the famed Opera Populaire in Paris have proved fortunate to us, indeed. We are very happy to welcome Frau Antoinette Giry and her lovely daughter, Fräulein Marguerite, who will be joining our corps de ballet."

Madame Giry nodded impassively at the assemblage while Meg curtsied and smiled briefly. There was a smattering of polite applause, which did nothing to drown out the roaring in Erik's ears. But it did manage to conceal from those below the low, feral growl that escaped his lips as he spun around and exited the haven of his theater box.


	5. Chapter Five

**Come the Dawn, Chapter Five**

_**Introduction**_

Meg looked over from the barre where she was working through a progression of stretching exercises, and watched as her mother worked with a group of the company's younger dancers. She smiled as she noted the ease with which her mother balanced the stern discipline of a ballet mistress with the softer, gentler guidance of a mother. The result was that in a little less than a month, the young girls in the corps de ballet had gone from a respectful fear of her mother to something approaching reverential awe. That, Meg supposed, was the secret to her mother's success in her chosen field—she was a tireless taskmaster, but she never let her love of dance override her innate love for the dancers themselves. And, instinctively, the ballet rats understood that, and worked harder and with more enthusiasm for Madame Giry than they would for any kinder, but more indifferent, mentor.

"Madame Giry—your mother—is quite the teacher, isn't she?" The voice was soft, appealingly musical, and carried the barest hint of an English accent overlying a German one. It also came from directly over her right shoulder, and startled Meg into stumbling slightly as she spun around. The owner of that voice put a steadying hand on Meg's shoulder; leaving it there for the second or two it took for her to regain her balance…and perhaps a second more.

Meg pulled away, looking up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. They were set within a face that instantly reminded her of the Greek god, Apollo—golden, sun-kissed skin, high forehead, square jaw, straight nose—and a pair of full, sensual lips that were now curved into a smile of almost boyish delight. The overall effect of those eyes and that smile was so innately appealing that Meg smiled back, charmed.

"She is indeed, monsieur," she answered, straightening her shoulders a bit and turning ever so slightly, so that her profile was shown to its best advantage.

"She has a grace about her, and a quiet sort of authority," the man continued. "The dancers flock about her like cygnets flock about a mother swan."

Meg hid a grin, for the man had aptly captured the image that the chorus girls made in their filmy, flowing practice gowns. The movement of air through the sheer material bore a striking resemblance to a breeze ruffling downy feathers. And in the center of them all was her mother—calm, poised, graceful as an elegant black swan. But still…

"I hardly think my mother, or the chorus, would enjoy being likened to waterfowl, monsieur." Her continued smile softened the put-on sternness of her tone. He smiled back at her, clearly understanding the age-old dance they'd begun.

"A swan is hardly just a waterfowl, my dear. That would be akin to calling Shakespeare just a writer, or Mozart just a musician." Still smiling, he bowed low, peering up at Meg through thick, golden lashes. His eyes twinkling, he straightened and took her hand in his, bending again to press a light kiss on her knuckles. "Allow me to introduce myself, Mademoiselle Giry. I am Stefan Goss. My father is…"

"Rainaldo Goss?" Meg cut in, quelling the flutter of excitement the press of his lips on her skin had caused. "The manager is your father?"

"He is."

"But I had heard that Monsieur Goss' son—you—were at school in England, and would not be returning until…"

He held a finger up to her lips to still her words, and his eyes held a cynical amusement. "A surprise, my dear. My father knows nothing of my arrival. It will be our secret."

Meg pulled back a step, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the familiarity this Stefan Goss was displaying. He was handsome, true, and undeniably charming, and his father was the manager and a respected man, but even so… In the short time she'd been living there, she'd heard the whispered conversations among the older chorus girls, stories involving the manager's handsome son. Stories revolving around the young man's own talents—for music, for theater and…for other things. In fact, from what she'd heard, Meg had deduced that the gentleman presently flirting with her was a bit of a rakehell, and had perhaps been sent off to school in England not so much to further his education and broaden his horizons, but more to get him away from the temptation of the all-too-willing members of the chorus and the complications that such dalliances could cause his father.

Meg backed up another step and pulled her hand out of his. His fingers tightened slightly on hers, but she was able to extricate herself with little difficulty.

"I am Meg Giry, sir," she said, with a quick curtsey, although it was quite obvious that he was already aware of that fact. "I am sorry, but I must get back to rehearsal. My mother may seem a swan, but I assure you, when she believes her flock is inattentive to their lessons, her demeanor is more that of a lion." With another quick bow, Meg spun on her heel and walked over to the group of dancers.

* * *

As Stefan watched Meg's retreat, a sly grin curved the corners of his mouth. "Ah, mademoiselle, if the lioness is your mother, that means you are one as well." His face took on a calculating expression. "I have always fancied going on safari." His low chuckle was an unpleasant sound. He watched Meg for a few seconds more, then sauntered off.

* * *

Balancing with ease on a catwalk high above, Erik frowned. He was not at all happy that Meg and her mother were here, and resented the memories that their presence made inescapable. Still… 

He didn't like the way this young man had looked at Meg. It had been an appraising, assessing look, and the expression in the boy's eyes had instantly made Erik's hackles rise.

Little Giry had left quickly enough, but Erik had heard the boy's last words. The young pup would bear watching.

In a swirl of dark wool, Erik faded into the shadows above the stage.


End file.
